Burn Scars
by ficlit78
Summary: Rigby muses about getting burned. In several ways. Shameless smut.


A/N: The next great American novel. Snort. It's smut, folks. Just like everything else I conjure. Rigsby's POV as he muses. The Mentalist is my playground, not my backyard. I don't own it.

**Burn Scars**

I have one real burn scar.

On my arm. My right arm. I got it doing something stupid, but necessary. Someone was in trouble, I leapt into a burning house to save him. He didn't survive long though, and I was marred for my trouble.

That's when _she_ saved me.

Because of her, it was only a second degree. Because of her, my burn has faded away to a slight pucker on my otherwise smooth forearm. It could have been worse. On the arson squad, I saw much, much worse. But I was always lucky. Professionally, I played with fire and never got burned. But fire was a patient nemesis, and she got me in the end.

She took my cherry. In a way, I'm glad. To stay unscathed in this line of work is its own scarlet letter. A 'C', to be exact. For coward.

That's the story of my one visible burn.

The others? Scorch my entire body.

Except _you_ can't see them.

Even I can barely see them. But I feel them. Everyday I feel them. They're absolutely everywhere. My scalp. My toes. Everywhere in between. They burn with a pleasant agony that I didn't know existed in human sensation. They don't hurt. But they do ache. Constantly. And strangely, the only cure is more burning. The more exposure they get to the heat, the better they feel. And the worse the damage gets when the heat is gone.

I'm not explaining this well.

Let me try again.

I'll start with my scalp. She has these adorable little round nails. Plain coats of polish. Nothing fancy. When we're alone, she rakes them through my hair. Oh my God, it feels good. Those little round points blaze tiny trails of sparks across my scalp. The only visual I can conjure is when train wheels brake on the tracks. Sparks fly at the contact. Nothing is damaged, just little pops of energy jumping into the air. As she cuddles my head in her lap and strokes my hair, I feel them pop all around me. I close my eyes. I murmur with pleasure. I like the sparks. The scars they leave are minimal.

My eyes don't escape with such minor damage. My eyes were burned on Day One. She entered their line of sight and somehow her visage was lasered into my optic nerves. I can tell you now that lasers burn like a bitch. Even when she wasn't in front of me, I saw her. Everywhere. Everything else dimmed, the reality of whatever I was looking at was unimportant. If it wasn't her, it wasn't worth seeing. And soon the lasered image of her became a mosaic. Her hair in a braid, or loose around her shoulders, or held in a messy bun. I think I'll have a favorite style, only to see her the next day and get blinded by the reality of the style she chose that day. So _that _would become my favorite. Until the next day. And then there were her clothes. Hands down, her skirts are my favorite. Dark, figure-hugging, knee-length skirts. And her short-sleeve tops. I'm trying desperately not to be a pervert, but the more skin she shows me, the better. In words, it sounds sleazy. In my mind, it's pure as snow. Just like her. Her limbs are so slim and feminine. Her skin is flawless. In Vegas, she wore a little pink top, her arms bare and beautiful in the bright sun. I walked behind her and saw the smallest little mole on her upper arm. It scares me how close I came to leaning down and brushing my lips across it, in front of God and everybody. Taking my time with it too, not just a peck, but slow, lazy journey that ended at her wrist. Or her ear.

And her legs? In those skirts, she sends me to far darker places. Those skirts are wrapping paper. They're chocolate sauce. Edible. Disposable. A prelude to the real prize. Every time, I wanted to just fall to my knees and let my hands slide up her calves. Up. Up. Or come up from behind and trap her thighs between my palms, slowly traveling up and bringing the skirt with them. Up. Up. Most of the time, I could stop the fantasy there. To take it further was pointless torture. Plus I felt disrespectful. As much as I loved her, I would have killed any man having these same thoughts about her. So why was I an exception? It's only filthy when other people think it? Am I such a hypocrite? Yes, I loved her, so be a man about it and not an asshole. I tried to stop my thoughts about her. But my eyes were never given reprieve.

Do I even need to describe how abysmally I failed? What a burning wasteland my mind is on account of that woman? My memories of her are on a permanent loop in a mental space the size of an amphitheater. My fantasies of her are behind a black curtain, along with all the other dirty, explicit material. _All _of them. Even the non-sexual scenarios are branded with shame and bundled away in that windowless space. Why? Because for over a year, she wasn't mine. _All _of these thoughts were wrong. She deserved my respect and my professionalism. I tried like hell to give her both. Meanwhile, the curtained room was showing scenes of me walking her to her car. Me taking her out to a ballgame. Me chasing her down in my apartment and bending her over my sofa. Me waking up spooned against her back and kissing her awake. Us singing along with the radio. Me cooking her dinner. Her sucking my cock. Me just looking at her, happy in the knowledge that she wanted me to.

Then of course there was the emotional carnage. Namely, need. Fuck, did I need her. My whole brain _throbbed _with aching need. Love too, obviously. But love hurt more. Burned more. So I focused on the need. And the jealousy. It took Grace coming into my life for me to realize that I'm a very jealous man. It didn't even take a boyfriend. And I nearly beat the shit out of _him_ for no reason, except that he had her. Luckily, that turned out splendidly. He was a murdering maniac. Hurray for me. But there were other moments. Many, many others. When she smiled at anyone who wasn't me. When she left for the day and wasn't going home to me. When she didn't have lunch in the office. When she told me about her weekend. When she called her mom to ask what to get her brother for his birthday. When she got jewels from Jane. When she got assigned to work with Lisbon or Cho. Any circumstance that didn't involve me, I was insanely jealous of. She was laughing and talking to people, telling them things I didn't know about her, showing them sides of herself I didn't get to see. Getting to know them, getting to like them. It was possible that she warm to others in a way she wouldn't warm to me. It drove me crazy. Given how much I love her, it still does.

That leaves the left part of my brain. The logical part. I don't think I need to explain how charred and ruined my rationality is when it comes to this woman, do I? Suffice it to say, my reasoning power is nothing but ash.

I'll move onto my neck and chest. They're riddled with small, oval scars in the shape of her pouty lips. I've been repeatedly burned where my jaw connects under my ear. She loves kissing me there. She'll follow the line of my jaw, kissing the entire way, until she reaches the other ear. The worst is when she uses her tongue to lick long, wet lines of napalm down to my Adam's apple. Shit, does it drive me insane. I moan in delicious pain and she'll sweetly torture me, pulling the lump into her mouth and sucking it softly. I curse loving, empty threats at her. She smiles at them and moves lower. She murmurs that she loves my body. I once teased her that her kisses were burning me up and she laughed and licked her initials across my chest.

"You're mine now," she purred, looking up at me. "I've branded you."

Now GVP glows brightly on my chest. I see it plain as day when I look down. I feel smug. I feel owned. I feel desired. I feel loved.

My hands are a disaster area. Unlike most of me, they go looking for trouble. They've been scorched with long grill lines as they funneled through her hair. They've cupped her breasts. Her ass. They've entered the inferno itself, rimming her beautifully soft and delectable pussy before pushing ahead and nearly killing me with their hot explorations of her center. They've canvassed every inch of her. They always go back for more. She begs them to.

"Touch me," she whimpers. "I love how you touch me."

My groin—my entire reproductive system—is a volcano. Not only is it burned, it continues to burn. It's a living flow of fire, long dormant, but now exploding to life and scaring the hell out of the villagers. Namely me. I can't predict its patterns anymore. I can't depend on it to stay calm. Not since she pulled me into that office and kissed me like the world was ending. Now I'm fucking Hawaii.

Our first time together, she destroyed me. I had waited so long. Been dreaming for so long. Suddenly she was there, in my arms, in my bed, begging for every single thing that I'd longed to give her and felt ashamed for imagining. She wanted my kisses. She wanted my lips everywhere. She loved receiving oral sex from me. Thank Christ. She shyly confessed that she was wary of fallatio, but wanted it with me. She laid me back on the bed and blushingly asked me to be vocal, telling her when she was pleasing me, wanting me to explain what I liked. I'd never been so turned on in my life as I was by her request. As she gently took me in her mouth and suckled me softly, I immediately had to stop her, groaning loudly and cupping her head.

"Baby, stop. It's too much. I can't watch you suck me and not come. Please? Come up here." I begged her as she lifted her head, wide-eyed at my pleas.

"You're that excited?" She looked amazed. As if no man had ever told her that watching her suck his dick would set him off instantly. Who the fuck were these clowns she had dated in the past? How could she be anything short of certain that she could make a man ejaculate just by looking at him?

"Yes, baby. You excite me that much." She needed to hear these things. They were the God's-honest truth.

She smiled timidly. "I _want _to excite you." And with that, she dipped her head back down and swallowed me whole. As I predicted, I didn't last long. I gave no instruction. None was needed. Instead, I moaned and choked on my praise. She breathed hot air on my tip, snaking her tongue out and licking experimentally. My cock jumped and I groaned.

"Jesus Christ, Grace. You're so fucking gorgeous." I kept my head up. I made my eyes stay open. I _had _to see this. Grace Van Pelt, sucking me off.

She grew bolder, pulling me in a sucking hard. Her tongue slipped all around me. The friction was unbearable. Her eyes lifted, watching my reaction. What I had done to deserve this image? Her mouth wrapped around me, her hair splayed over my hips, her eyes pinning me down as she took more of me. My body went rigid underneath her.

"Fuck!" I screamed. "Just like that…oh God, honey…you're amazing… I could watch you do this forever…so fucking good…baby…don't stop…Christ, I just wanna fuck your mouth for hours…you know that?...beautiful baby…_don't… stop_!"

She moaned at my words and I lost it. I didn't mean to. I would have warned her. But watching her sucking me was too much. After less than a minute, I came hard in her mouth. She eyes went wide and she inhaled sharply through her nose, but she pulled me deep into her throat and swallowed everything I gave her. Just like that.

I don't remember what words I roared at the top of my lungs as she sucked me dry. I probably told her I loved her. I probably said 'fuck' a lot. I might have asked her to marry me and bear my children. I don't remember. Reel missing. Lost in the fire. I don't give a damn. All I know is that ever since that first night, she blows me on a regular basis. I lose brain cells every time.

Those are the burns I get from her mouth.

Now then. Her cunt. My heaven. My haven. Dear God, where do I even start? I craved it for an entire year. Longed to just bury myself deep inside her and never, ever leave. Like Nirvana, I knew without visiting that it was the most perfect place on earth. From her yoga, I knew she'd be tight. From her healthy diet, I knew she'd taste like cherry pie. I know the words sound crude, but my thoughts were nothing but reverent. Such is our vernacular, which I hate. 'Cunt' should _mean_ 'heaven', not some filthy insult that we dare not speak. It's always been my belief that tv has it all wrong. You can turn to any family channel at any time of day and watch a guy get his head blown off by a bullet. No biggie. Two consenting adults expressing their feelings for each other physically? You get the Spice Channel, an expensive outlet for perverts. What the hell?

Is there anything in the world more honest than fucking? More natural? More wonderful? Sure, kids may not understand it, but should they understand killing? Should Playstations have plastic guns as part of their basic package? What is this hell we live in?

Sorry. I got off track.

Grace. Fucking with Grace. Getting burned by the sun. And that's exactly what it is. I slipped into her for the first time and knew that it wasn't just my chest that she had branded. My dick was now officially her property. It wouldn't respond to anything but those tight, hot depths. Oh, Christ Almighty. Just as I figured, and nothing like what I was prepared for, she was tight. Unbelievably so. I was sure I was hurting her, but she moaned in pleasure and grabbed my ass, pulling me all of the way in. Her inner muscles rippled around me. So soft, my baby. There I was, hard as a diamond, and she wrapped me in hot silk and pulled gently. My brain short circuited. Luckily I didn't need it.

She came three times before I finally let go. _Never_ has that happened to me before. But I just couldn't stop. She felt so perfect. Too perfect. If I finished, she might disappear forever. A mirage. I had to stay. Even my raging need to ejaculate knew this and stayed away. I thrust into her over and over, worked us both into a sweaty, sobbing tangle of pleasure. I took her, she took me, we laid on our sides and took each other.

Her third orgasm came against my mouth. The taste of baked pineapple and wet sunshine filled my mouth as I feasted on her. Her thighs pressed against me. I wanted to devour them too. But my tongue refused to leave her wet, delicious flesh. Nor could it decide what it wanted more, her clit or her folds. Licking her folds made her moan and coated my tongue with more honey. Licking her clit brought screams and breathy sobs of my name. Like a dog with two bones, I worried between the two of them, choosing one, then the other, never able to stay long with one choice.

Grace shattered under my indecision.

Constantly hungry for the most erotic flavor in the world, I blow _her_ on a regular basis.

To sum up, that leaves me with a light, second-degree burn on my arm and the charred landscape on the rest of me.

And I want more.

I'll get more.

I'll never stop burning for her.

_Grace._


End file.
